


Live and Fight

by JustAGirl24



Series: Art Therapy [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Rehabilitation, Therapy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-18
Updated: 2015-06-18
Packaged: 2018-04-04 23:02:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 916
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4156257
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JustAGirl24/pseuds/JustAGirl24
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“Join us tomorrow at one o’clock, on the terrace.” He isn’t sure if it’s a suggestion or a command, but he bristles nonetheless.</i>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>  <i>“I don’t need your fingerpainting,” he hisses. She continues to look at him, placid as ever. “Besides, I’ll probably only be half as good as the rest of the class.” He gives her a sardonic smile, wiggles the fingers of his left hand at her. She looks singularly unimpressed. </i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Live and Fight

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ikkiM](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ikkiM/gifts).



> For everything she does. You are the alpha and the omega. The beginning and the end. Behold, you are death, the destructor of worlds. (Or, you know, just a really integral part of the fandom.)

The isle of Tarth is quiet. Serene. It would soothe him, if he allowed it.

Jaime Lannister, retired Lord Commander of His Majesty’s Kingsguard, sits on the edge of his bed, swaths of golden sand visible through the window, and beyond that, a thinner line of the sapphire blue waters for which the isle is famous. Gulls soar through the sky, their cries audible through the open windows. A gentle breeze curls the thin curtains, caresses the side of his face like phantom fingers, and he swallows against sharp memories of the last time Cersei had touched him with such care, love on her lips, in her eyes, her hands…

He would rather be almost anywhere else. He is here for one reason: the love of his brother. The quiet desperation in Tyrion’s eyes as he’d implored Jaime to just _try_. Getting here has taken more from Jaime than Tyrion could ever know.

Jaime hears a soft knock. The door opens. He assumes it’s one of the nurses, and sighs. More pills, he guesses. Pills to sleep. Pills to wake up. Pills to quell the godsdamn tremors he just can’t seem to get rid of. Pills to make him feel _normal,_ whatever the seven _fucking_ hells that’s supposed to mean anymore. Pills won’t give him a new hand, or turn wide, jagged, purple-red scars back into smooth golden skin. And they certainly won’t bring back the love of his golden twin.

He turns, ready to throw a scathing remark at whichever nurse is unlucky enough to disturb him, to tell them what exactly they can do with their pills. He is taken aback by the sight of the biggest, ugliest woman he has ever seen, all wide shoulders and freckles and large, horsey teeth.

“Mr. Lannister,” she says, her voice rich and calm.

“Yes?” he says—or croaks, his voice rusty from lack of use. He’s surprised at the sound he makes, but only for a moment. It is too exhausting to care about such a thing. She gives him a brief once over, her gaze lingering on his right arm where it rests in his lap. He wears a thick sock on the end to protect the still-healing flesh, but there is scarring nearly up to his elbow which he knows is clearly visible.

A distant part of him notes that she looks at him with neither revulsion nor distaste, more of a simple evaluation, and that in itself is a rarity. He hadn’t understood the simplicity of being looked at with admiration, jealousy, and desire until those looks had turned to disgust, or worse, pity.

She sits on the stool between his bed and the window, forcing his gaze to meet hers. “May I?” Her fingers brush his elbow as he holds her astonishingly blue gaze, calm as the ocean on a clear day. He nods and glances down, unable to look at her any longer. He watches her hands—wide, capable, gentle—cradle his arm, one under his elbow and the other under his wrist. She straightens it out, turns it this way and that, seems to note the livid red scars and the atrophy with clinical detachment. After several endless moments, she gently places his arm back.

“I’m Brienne Tarth,” she tells him, “director of art therapy.” She pauses, but he says nothing. “Join us tomorrow at one o’clock, on the terrace.” He isn’t sure if it’s a suggestion or a command, but he bristles nonetheless.

“I don’t need your _fingerpainting,”_ he hisses. She continues to look at him, placid as ever. “Besides, I’ll probably only be half as good as the rest of the class.” He gives her a sardonic smile, wiggles the fingers of his left hand at her. She looks singularly unimpressed.

“Then why are you here, Mr. Lannister?” As quickly as his rage has come, it leaves him. He slumps on the edge of the bed.

“My brother,” he mumbles. She says nothing, but he can feel the weight of her stare. “I’m dying,” he finally says, almost sullen. She makes a noncommittal noise, rolls her eyes a bit.

“Are you a coward, Mr. Lannister?” she asks, and he feels the rage rushing back in, intense and blinding.

“I’m no coward!”

“One misfortune, and you’re giving up?” Her words are staggering, and for a moment, he cannot speak.

“Misfortune?” he finally manages. “They took my _hand.”_ And now he is half a man. Less than that, even. Cersei had made sure he knew that.

“And you are not that hand,” she counters, her eyes fierce. “Will you whine? Cry? Quit?” He stares for a moment, then shakes his head.

“Good,” she says. Large, freckled hands give his arm a gentle squeeze, and he swallows thickly. No one ever just _touches_ him anymore. He takes in a shaky breath. “You will live. And you will fight.” She stands and looks at him carefully, her eyes as blue as the waters surrounding the isle. “That is the very best revenge.” Jaime wonders if she knows how his hand was taken, watches as she turns to leave. _“Fingerpainting_ on the terrace at one,” she reminds him over her shoulder, and then she is gone.

It seems impossible that this large, ungainly woman has sparked something in him—but she has. It is small, but there is a faint sense of…determination? He’s not ready to call it hope, not yet. But she is right. He will live. And he will fight.

**Author's Note:**

> This will probably be continued, but I feel it stands alone well at the moment.
> 
> It has been brought to my attention that there might be a power imbalance issue between Jaime and Brienne, given that he is a patient and she is teaching the art therapy class. Please bear that in mind if such things make you uncomfortable...


End file.
